Burn in hell
An end to your human experience is inevitable, but how you go and where you go is still up for debate. Does pain and pleasure really get triggered by the same censors? I’m not trying to raise hell like some cenobite but why does each extreme feel so extraordinary on opposing ends of the spectrum? A cut, an orgasm, a death, a birth.
Burn in hell
Are you afraid of what you cannot see and don’t know? I’ve been human for so long, almost all my life. I’ve been plagued with affinities and tendencies which another human will gladly justify my obsession and aid in my quest for the indulgence of these pleasures. Decadence. But lately the pendulum stopped swinging and is stuck. It’s stuck on pain and everything hurts. How can I explain this? Have you ever processed what it really means for something to be over?
Burn in hell
The “wrath of god” is an amazing phrase. It takes the idea of this super being inflicting immense physical pain typically through the use of a medium. The idea of physical pain is enough to scare the simple. Pain is something we understand since we’re young. You do wrong, pow pow time, see? Simple. Now take that simple mind and tell them it’s infinite pow pow time (please explain what infinite means to the child so they can grasp what’s going on). You see how you mitigated the inherent evil just by extending the punishment indefinitely. B-R-I-L-L-I-A-N-T!
Burn in hell
I came back from hell to tell you that there are no fires, no torture chambers, no bodies of blood, horrible screams or anything of the like. There’s just silence. The silence slips over your entire body and engulfs your soul in a sense of dread unlike anything you’ve felt on earth. You begin to feel yourself cry for no reason at all, but no one hears you, it’s dark and you can’t even hear yourself. You begin to panic. Where is everyone and everything that you’ve grown to love. The memories you made on earth are gone and you’re unsure of who you are. You feel your hands in front of you, your pupils dilate to catch any light to reassure that these are indeed your hands, but blackness is the only sight that registers. You feel desperation flip to fear and fear to agony all in what seems to be mere seconds. You begin to cry again. All you’re wishing for now is to hear the sound of your own voice but the heavy silence snuffs out any audible escape from within. You’re going to be here awhile. To burn is to actually feel, and wishes aren’t granted in hell. To burn for an eternity would be a pleasure in comparison.
As Saturday falls into Sunday I don’t want to be celebrated
I want to be appreciated
I’m so anxious,
Millions of cells with a thought for each one
Who am I going to ruin my life over today
And in what way
And then I stop myself
These were my younger years
I don’t expect you to understand me
But I respect that you try
I’ve made a habit of labeling the unimportant as urgent until a revaluation, no! A revelation of relevance relabeled me,
And look I am reborn!
But the cup is now half empty, but I am not sad because there is still a thirst to be quenched and a cup for me.
Then there’s her…
Why are you afraid to be who you really are in front of others
Make sure they love all of you, even your shadow
And I love her back.
I remember all of the things I went without just to be with
Even the stars burn out after so long
Love cycles/Hate cycles
You can live forever if you never existed, god
At the end of every week, every month, every year…
A new one!
Since birth I have been propelled forward from the past, I have been happy, been bitter, been blessed, been loved, been lost, but never better than I am right now to close my eyes and drift from this gift
Wherever you’re going
Have fun and take care
When 2:30am is a religion, and you realize from the rooftop your eyes are fixed forever forward towards the sky, you begin to fall in love with introspective inquiries like “who do I put this show on for?” Self-lead expeditions of inquisitions lead against your own heresy.
Set me free, set me free.
More spiritual than a cigarette on a Saturday night, and a coffee on a Sunday morning. Caffine my contradiction, I need to slow down. Adrenaline my addiction, I need to slow down. Every pack my persciption, I can’t put these down. Where has hope gone? Stuck with its bastard offspring, hopelessness, borne from my own bereavement after a short fling with happiness, I wish the worst for this child of mine, because it wishes the worst for me, we are one.
Almost perfect, but for how long?
An American dream, what did u sell me?